


Holding On

by Giggi1



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: CW: Drowning, UST, bits of fluff h/c humour and pining kinda mixed together, cave story without a cave, cuddling for warmth, lost in the wilderness, no actual smut, set sometime between Jingo and Night Watch, shirtlessness for perfectly plot-logical reasons, this was meant to be short what happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 00:31:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10865319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giggi1/pseuds/Giggi1
Summary: Returning from a diplomatic meeting in the countryside, Vimes and Vetinari don't quite make it back to the city.





	Holding On

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing about the symptoms of drowning or about river-fish. Laws of physics may be slightly bent for plot-convenience. Do not try this at home.
> 
> Forever indebted to L3rron for their extensive feedback, beta-reading and encouragement. Couldn't have done it without you!

The last of the Ankh-Morpork envoys and retinue were all getting back into their coaches. Most had already left. His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, would have been among them, but he had got in an argument with a diplomat, which had taken some time and the intervention of a certain tyrant to stop it. It hadn’t even been a foreign diplomat - the bloody bugger was from Ankh-Morpork, which just irked Vimes all the more. _We could’ve damn well shouted at each other at home!_

He felt ill at ease out of the city but the outer towns had insisted, and Vetinari was ever one for diplomatic solutions. _Politics._ As if it mattered _where_ the negotiations took place! When you were negotiating with Havelock Vetinari, the outcome was certain. It was just that only Lord Vetinari knew beforehand what it would be.

But of course, as the Duke of Ankh, the Patrician had made him come along anyway. He didn’t have the feeling that his presence had helped with anything in any way, but that was diplomacy for you.

Now, Vimes was hurrying towards his coach. With any luck, he’d be home by tomorrow. With any more luck, this excursion would have given Carrot enough time to sort through most of his accumulated paperwork, so that he could at least look forward to a clean desk on his return, the only good thing to come from this visit to the countryside and what passed for towns with these people.

He spotted his carriage and was about to open the door, when he heard a voice behind him.  
“Ah, Commander. Would you care to join me?”

Vimes turned, confused. “Sir?”

“In my carriage. I’m sure the esteemed Mr. Fidon won’t mind…?”

The driver, who knew a hint when it came from a man known to possess a scorpion pit, agreed fervently. “Right you are sir! Be bringing this coach back empty, sir!”  
After some hand-waving and an inexpertly executed salute to show that it really was no problem at all, he gently urged on the horses and slowly trotted away.

Vimes sighed, and followed the Patrician as he got into his black carriage. What could Vetinari possibly want to talk about? Was he seriously going to reprimand him for that... ‘heated discussion’ earlier? It wasn’t as though he couldn’t have predicted something like this when he had made Vimes come along to a trade meeting!

He sat down opposite the Patrician, who knocked at the top of the coach. As it began to move, neither of them said anything. The Patrician didn’t look angry, but that meant nothing. Vimes knew from experience that he could be ambushed by calm questions and cutting, sarcastic remarks at any time, without warning.

The silence stretched between them. Vetinari was looking out of the window, seeming almost content. Vimes was looking at Vetinari. Outside, the landscape became even more rural. Vimes knew what it was without looking, he had seen it ad nauseam on the way out. Trees. Grass. Cabbages. He was not impressed. As far as he was concerned, they could not reach the city (or, as he thought of it, leave the countryside) soon enough.

Without looking at Vimes, Vetinari spoke at last. “Things went rather well, I think.”

Vimes decided to play it safe. “Sir.”  
The Patrician finally turned his head from the window to look at him, causing Vimes to hurriedly stop staring at Vetinari and focus his gaze on the window instead, hoping to seem as though he’d observed nature all along. He saw a tree. It did nothing to distract him from the way the Patrician was looking at him, quite emphatically not raising an eyebrow. After a few uncomfortable seconds, Vimes gave up and tried to offer a bit more to the conversation.

“The trade routes got negotiated alright, but couldn’t we have done this in Ankh-Morpork? That’s where all the trade _goes_.” Outside the window, rocky hills went by.

“The rest of the Sto Plains have made it clear that they feel it may be somewhat unfair for Ankh-Morpork to host all diplomatic events that affect, after all, a wide region.”

Vimes, looking at some boulders and scrub, scoffed. “Yeah, right. It’s a power play. They wanted to see if they could make us come running, for a change. And when we did, they tried to make us eat their horrible food!” Up ahead, a boulder seemed to move.

A mischievous glint appeared in Vetinari’s eyes. “Ah, but now _they_ think -“

Before the higher parts of his brain could process what his eyes had seen, another, deeper part of his mind had already made him spring to his feet. “JUMP! NOW!” he shouted, violently kicking open the carriage door on the side not facing the hills.  
With surprising speed, Vetinari was standing in the door frame and, without wasting time with questions and with no visible hesitation, he jumped, at the same moment as Vimes. Unfortunately, it was also the moment the coach was hit by a large rock.

The next moments were a blur. Vimes was mid-jump when the coach accelerated significantly sideways, giving him more momentum. The next thing he knew was landing on his side, rolling to soften his fall, hindered by the fact that gravel and broken rock are not soft landing materials. A shadow passed overhead, then the carriage crashed into the ground behind him, continuing to slide and bounce from the sheer force with which it had been hit.

Vimes tried to stop his painful progress across the ground, but he was now rolling down a slope at alarming speed, rocks and stones bruising his skin as he bounced across them. He tried to hold on to something, to stop his fall, but there was only loose rubble, and he was too fast, and stone was raining down on him.

And then there was emptiness, but his hand touched something like a branch, or a tree, and he grasped it, feeling the skin of his palm tear as his momentum tried to yank him onwards. At the same time, something brushed his side and he instinctively grabbed at it with his other hand, feeling cloth. A moment later, he grunted as he almost lost his grip on the wood above him when he abruptly brought whatever he had caught to a stop. There was a last, light rain of pebbles, after which all was quiet.

Vimes opened his eyes, which had been tightly squeezed shut.  
He was hanging over a sheer drop, holding on to a dangerously creaking thin tree, which was clinging to a crack in the rocks. His grip was slightly slippery from the blood of his hand, but he was managing to hold on.

The Patrician was hanging beneath him, holding on to Vimes’s other arm just as Vimes was holding on to his. Underneath him, there was nothing but a beautiful view of the canyon floor in the distance.  
Vimes looked up to the edge of the cliff, several yards above him.

“Bugger,” he said.

He carefully tried to pull himself up, but with one hand, that would’ve been impossible even without the weight of another person hanging onto him. He wished he could light a cigar.

“You alright down there, sir?” The moment he said it, he realized that this was a stupid question. Right now, he could do without a sarcastic remark, so he didn’t wait for Vetinari to reply.  
“Any ideas how to not-plunge to our deaths today?”

Vetinari looked up. “Not at present, regrettably.”

“Well, you better think of one, cause I don’t think this tree is going to hold for long.” It was dizzying to look at the Patrician and see nothing underneath him. Vimes tightened his hold on his arm.

“Come on, you’re always finding solutions to difficult situations!”

“This is hardly comparable to politics, Commander.”

“Difficult to strike a bargain with gravity, eh?” Vimes said absent-mindedly, scanning the cliff-face in front of him. If he could somehow reach it, maybe...

He glanced down again. The Patrician looked thoughtful, like he was trying to solve a complex problem. Vimes hoped that he was. In the meantime, he tried to judge the distance to the cliff edge above him. It was too damn far away, and –  
Suddenly, Vetinari’s grip was gone and Vimes could feel his arm escaping his hand. Crying out in surprise, he tried to grasp it again, catching his wrist at the last moment. The tree creaked alarmingly.

“What the hell!” he yelled, feeling like he’d nearly had a heart attack. He breathed deeply, waiting for his pulse to slow down to a level appropriate for the situation of hanging off a cliff of certain death.

“Are you alright? What happened?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to let go of my arm, Commander.” Vetinari’s voice was eerily calm.

Vimes stared at him. “What? _Why_?”

“It is the only way either of us will be able to get back up there.”

Vimes was still haunted by the brief moment when he’d felt Vetinari’s arm slipping from his grip, his mind a chorus of _No, no, no, oh gods, no_  
He risked a glance downwards.  
“Let me guess: With your usual wise foresight, you had a trampoline installed down there days ago, sir?”

“It’s quite simple, Vimes.” There was a hint of impatience in the Patrician’s voice. “Alone, you may well be able to climb up there before that branch snaps, which, by the way, is more and more likely to happen the longer we hang on it like this.” Vimes began to object, but Vetinari simply talked over him, somehow able to raise the authority in his voice without actually raising his voice. “If, on the other hand, you insist on stubbornly refusing to see sense, both of us will fall, and soon.”

Vimes shook his head incredulously. “You’re bloody mad if you think –“  
“Am I? Would Sybil agree with you on that?”

Vimes opened his mouth to reply, and closed it again. Vetinari’s voice became softer. “I realize that it is difficult for you to act against your instincts in this situation. But your death, heroic as it may be, would serve no purpose whatsoever,” his voice turned sharp, a dagger underneath the silk, “and I, for one, would consider it an unacceptable waste to have you throw away your life for nothing.”

The bastard was right, of course he was: It was one life, or two.

“I’m not letting go of your arm, you can just about forget about that, _sir_.”

He had considered every possibility. He couldn’t get up. But that wasn’t the only direction available.

The Patrician was saying something, but Vimes knew he would be trying to rile him up, somehow get him to see sense. He had already seen sense; he just didn’t like what he saw. But Vetinari did have a track record of manipulating him into doing what he wanted, so Vimes did his best to tune him out.

Instead, he concentrated on the little blue ribbon he saw the canyon floor. How deep would it be? How deep _could_ it be? There was no chance of hitting it from here, but with enough of a boost, perhaps…

It was a million to one chance.  
But it just might work.

He carefully moved his legs. The tree held, so far. He took a deep breath.  
Then he swung his whole body, and, by extension, Vetinari’s, away from the cliff. _Please don’t break please don’t break pleasedontbreak…_

On the highest point, he turned his body towards the cliff. It brought him far enough that he could reach the rock face with his feet. The wood finally broke. But Vimes was already pushing himself off the cliff, jumping, falling…

He just really hoped he hadn’t made a huge mistake.  
But would he ever know it if he had?

He was still holding on to Vetinari, but all he could see was the river, rushing up to meet him.

 

***********

 

Vimes woke from in a coughing fit. It violently jerked him awake, pulling him from a deep blackness. His throat felt like it was on fire. Disorientedly, he opened his eyes.

He was sitting up, leaned against a tree. The bark scratched his bare back as he shook from the coughing. The sun was almost gone, but the stars weren’t out yet. He had been unconscious for some time, then. A fire was burning nearby, its warmth emphasizing the cold, clammy feeling in his lower body. His trousers were wet. The river...

As the coughing slowly subsided, he remembered the fall. It seemed to have worked. How had he got here?  
There was a movement in the corner of his eye. He reached for his sword, which wasn’t there, and stood up abruptly. Or tried to, anyway. He slumped back down with a groan.

“Ah, Commander. It is good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Sir? What-“ His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What happened?”

Vetinari stepped into the light, causing Vimes to become momentarily dumbfounded at the sight of the Patrician without his black robes. There were black boots, and trousers (black), but… nothing else. He seemed to be leaning on a tree branch instead of his cane.

“What _happened_ was a rather foolish attempt at suicide-by-stubbornness, to put it delicately. Now, let me see those ribs.” Vetinari crouched down.

“You think I’ve been a bloody idiot”, Vimes translated, then winced as Vetinari touched his hurting chest.

“My apologies. It just happens to be much more reliable to check for broken ribs when the subject is conscious and actually able to communicate how much it does or does not hurt.” He looked up. “And I would not put it quite like that.”, which Vimes knew to mean ‘yes’.

He decided to put off arguing for a time when, preferably, Vetinari wasn’t in the process of prodding his bruises. Though his hands were gentler now, only occasionally applying pressure at a particular spot, to which Vimes occasionally responded “Ow”, in the spirit of diagnostic exactitude.

He knew how bruises like this developed, and it wasn’t from travelling across rocks at high speeds, though that accounted for several other parts of his body, making their presence known in painful ways. There was always the danger of breaking ribs when reviving someone, and it was generally a fair price to pay for the chance to live another day.

It had to be Lord Vetinari who had done it. Drowning did explain the coughing, and if Vetinari had found it necessary to inflict this kind of battering on his chest, then that meant his heart had not been beating. He’d been dead. (He trusted Vetinari to be able to tell.) That meant the Patrician had saved his life, and not in an indirect political-machinations sort of way. Vimes couldn’t quite picture Lord Vetinari compressing someone’s chest, or blowing air into someone’s mouth, let alone if that someone was him. The concept seemed the wrong shape to fit into his mind.

This disconcerting strain of thought was interrupted when the Patrician stopped prodding him and said, “Well, Commander, evidently, you have been lucky. Nothing appears to be broken.” Vimes noticed that Vetinari’s long fingers were still touching his chest, in an absent-minded sort of way. Vimes had never known Lord Vetinari to be absent-minded. He hoped he wasn’t concussed.

“Where’s my armor?” It was not the most pressing of questions, but it had been preying on his mind, and it was avoiding the question why the Patrician was shirtless.  
Vetinari got up and pointed. “In the river. It proved rather difficult to fish both it and you out, and I decided that, on balance, armor is not much use without the man to wear it.”  
Vimes wistfully looked at the river, wishing he’d worn his ducal regalia today. He would have gladly lost that to the river instead. “Is my shirt in the river too?”

“It is drying by the fire.” He saw the confused look Vimes gave him. “You were shivering, Vimes, and dripping wet. I thought it best to get you dry before you died of pneumonia. My apologies for liberties taken.”

Vimes spent several moments trying to wrap his head around the fact that the Patrician had taken his shirt off. It was a very strange notion.  
He was, however, glad that his upper body dryer than his legs inside his soggy trousers. He shifted his legs, and the clammy cloth stuck to his skin. He shivered. Vetinari followed his gaze and, as if in answer to some unspoken question, he said, “I considered it, but I thought you might object.”

Vimes could feel the heat rising to his face, and angrily grumbled under his breath something that sounded like “You’re bloody damn right I would…”  
After a moment, he cleared his throat loudly. His legs felt decidedly uncomfortable and cold, but right now, he’d rather get in a fight with a werewolf than take his trousers off.

“So, I suppose your robes are drying by the fire too, _sir_?” he said, desperate to get the formality between them like a sort of shield, while also asking the question that had been on his mind all along.

“Unfortunately, they went the way of your armor. I believe the term is ‘hydrodynamic’, and robes are, I must say, sadly lacking in that respect. Speaking of, perhaps you would like to eat something, Commander? You threw up what looked like a significant portion of the river, no doubt along with any food you had recently.”

Vimes frowned, perplexed. “Eat what? We didn’t have any food with us, did we?”  
“It’s fish from the river. Very healthy, or so I hear. Though not, I fear, particularly flavourful without seasoning.” The Patrician walked over to the fire, using his tree branch as a cane. Meanwhile, Vimes patted his trouser pockets, looking for a cigar.

Without turning around, Lord Vetinari said, “That might not be advisable, Commander, considering your cough.”  
Vimes let his head fall back and groaned. Why did the bugger always have to be right?

He passed some time watching the Patrician prepare the fish. He had a knife, because of course he did. Only the gods knew all the places where assassins hid knives on their person - it wouldn’t be just in the robes, there’d be backup blades. So now there was a precise instrument of death, peacefully deboning a fish.  
And, hah, he had a knife, too.

He wondered how Vetinari had caught their meal, and made the fire. He always seemed to be able to turn a situation to his advantage. _Not when we were hanging from that cliff, though_. Vimes remembered. The Patrician had actually tried to let go! He would have let himself fall to certain death, just to give Vimes a chance to get to safety. It had been the logical course of action at the time, yes, it had been a choice between two lives, or one. Even so… it took a special kind of person who accepted their own death just because it was _logical_. Of course, the Patrician had never been accused of being ordinary.

After a few minutes, Vimes decided to give this ‘standing up’ business another go. He felt more clear-headed now that he’d been awake longer. With a grunt, he got to his feet, but immediately lost his balance and reached out for the tree for support.

He gasped at the sudden pain in his palm, snatched his hand away, stumbled, and somehow managed to stay upright. Breathing heavily, he inspected his hand. Most of the skin was torn, there were slivers of wood and gravel underneath the crusted blood. He cursed quietly. With this hand, he had held on to the thin tree at the top of the canyon. Apparently, it wasn’t a good idea to stop your fall by grabbing at splintery wood.

When he looked up, he almost jumped. The Patrician was standing next to him. The man moved like a damn shadow! How had he managed to sneak up on him?

“It would be prudent to remove those splinters,” he said, looking at Vimes’s hand.

“I’m not a pampered nob, you know. I have dealt with injuries before,” Vimes grumbled, picking at his palm. It was bleeding a little.

“Of course. Nevertheless, you might find it practical not to hurt yourself every time you happen to touch something.” He held out a piece of cloth. Vimes eyed it suspiciously for a while before recognizing it as Vetinari’s undershirt, a conclusion mainly derived because it was black and vaguely shirt-shaped. It was riddled with regularly spaced holes.  
“I used it as a net,” Vetinari explained. “A little trick I learned in Uberwald. I had to cut holes in it for better water flow, but it should be sufficient as a bandage.”

Vimes took it gingerly, holding it like a fascinating piece of evidence. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Carefully, he put the cloth on his bleeding palm. Winding it around his hand wasn’t easy one-handedly, and he cursed as it slipped from his grasp. After several frustrating attempts, he heard Vetinari say, “Allow me, Commander.”

Suddenly, the Patrician’s hands were touching his. He extended his arm, allowing Vetinari to take the cloth and gently wrap it around. He could feel the Patrician’s cool, slender fingers move across his skin as he adjusted the bandage and tied the knot to keep it in place. The touch left Vimes just slightly breathless, feeling as alive as he normally only felt when someone had just tried to kill him.

He could not quite explain why; it was probably his survival instincts reacting to the alarmingly close proximity to the most dangerous man he knew. After decades of being on his guard in the Patrician’s presence, those instincts would be hard to shut down, it only stood to reason.

Vetinari handed Vimes the branch he used as a cane. “You look like you can hardly stand, Vimes, might I suggest you take it easy for a while?” Still a little stunned, Vimes took the branch without protesting, and leaned on it with his good hand while he watched the Patrician walk back to the prepared fish, limping slightly.

Vimes shook his head to clear his thoughts. He was probably still dazed from being unconscious. Leaning on Vetinari’s branch, he noticed that the top had been carved to make it smooth, so that it didn’t sting your hand when you put weight on it. Trust Vetinari to think of everything.

Now he had something to lean on, he could walk around a bit, inspecting the environment. He noted that there weren’t many trees here, and wondered if this would have told him something about the land, if only he knew as much about the country as he did about the city. A little way from the river, the ground began to get rocky and slope steeply upwards. Vimes got tired just looking at it, and, deciding he’d seen enough, made his way back to the fire.

As he got closer, a delicious smell filled his nostrils. With a grumbling stomach, he sat down heavily on a rock, exhausted from the short walk.

“Ah, Vimes,” the Patrician said, in exactly the same way he might say it when Vimes came to the Oblong Office to give a report. “Would you like to try some fish? I believe it is trout.”

“Thank you, sir,” Vimes said, his eyes automatically trying to fix themselves on a bit of wall that wasn’t there. He noticed that Vetinari already used another branch-cane, which probably meant he could keep this one. To his chagrin, he had to admit to himself that he would need it, for a while at least.

Vetinari sat down next to him and handed him a stick with a piece of fish on it. It was hot and, he noted, the piece with the most burnt crunchy bits. He took a sidelong glance at Vetinari, who was taking a delicate bite of his piece of fish-on-a-stick, looking far more dignified than should logically be possible in the circumstances, and decided not to comment on the fact that the Patrician not only knew of his food preferences (which was not surprising), but had chosen to specifically take them into account.

His stomach was growling again. He turned his attention back to his food, and carefully took a bite. It was tasteless without salt, but he was famished and swallowed it hungrily. A moment later, his throat was on fire and he had a coughing fit that lasted for a whole minute.

When he finally recovered, he found Vetinari looking at him.

“I’m fine,” he wheezed, the statement accompanied by one or two last coughs. Lord Vetinari steepled his fingers together.

“Vimes, what were you thinking?” His voice was one of earnest curiosity, but Vimes knew it for an accusation. He was being _blamed_ for _drowning_!

“Let me see, sir, I was thinking, sir, that it might be better if the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork were to not-die, sir!”

“Some would argue, nonetheless, that that would be preferable to having both him and the Commander of the City Watch die in a gambit that was, frankly, very unlikely to succeed.”

“It did, though! And anyway, you don’t get to talk! You tried to let go without a warning, that’s got to be worse than what I did, because there’s no way it wouldn’t have resulted in death!”

“Just one,” Lord Vetinari said softly. “Besides, if I _had_ given a warning, you would simply have refused. It’s in your nature, Vimes.”  
There was a pause.

“And even if I had somehow been able to persuade you, would that not have been worse than merely letting myself fall? It was not necessary to force you to live with the knowledge that you made the decision to let go, therefore I attempted to avoid it.”

Vimes did not know how to respond to that. Luckily, the sharp intake of breath he’d taken when the Patrician had basically said that he had explicitly tried to spare Vimes’s feeling when planning to fall to his death caused him to have another coughing fit, which saved him from having to find a response. That man was unbelievable! Did he seriously think this justification would make Vimes any less angry at what he’d tried to do?

“Lucky I held on, then, isn’t it?” he said, when the cough had subsided. “It all worked out all right, didn’t it? Here we are, with a fire, and food, and _alive_!”

Instead of replying the Patrician turned his head, thoughtfully regarding the river. He sighed deeply.

 

***********

 

Havelock Vetinari curled into a tight ball moments before the impact with the river. Even so, it felt like hitting a solid stone wall. His breath was knocked out of him as the world turned into a whirlwind of confusion and pain.  
He gasped for air when he came back up to the surface, coughing up water. In the river current, he took a moment to orientate himself, then made for the shore with determined strokes.

He couldn’t see Samuel Vimes anywhere.

Their hands had gotten separated by the impact, but he should be somewhere close. The Patrician knew Vimes would swim, which was a skill that was at its most effective when the person who possessed it wasn’t knocked out from, oh, say, a fall from a high precipice.

Treading water, Lord Vetinari looked around, but there was no sign of another person on the surface of the river or on the shore. That left one other possibility. Regretfully, this meant that the robes would have to go, otherwise the current would gain too much of a hold.

With a few strategical movements, he opened three buttons, pulled one lace, and his robes floated away downriver. It paid to always be prepared to get out of anything. The Patrician had seen too many people die in burning robes, robes grabbed by their enemies, or even robes caught in an impractical meat-grinder. It was amazing, the kinds of accidents that could happen with robes. Therefore, always leave yourself a quick way out.

Now unencumbered, he took a deep breath and dove under the water. Vimes would be weighed down by his armor, the current would not be moving him this quickly… Vetinari turned upstream, searching the riverbed.

He couldn’t see far under the water, and he knew that the intervals at which he had to come up for air were growing shorter. The fall from such a great height had affected him, and the strain of fighting the river every second drew protests from his muscles. The Patrician ignored them. If a man couldn’t overrule his own muscles, how could he hope to rule a city?  
But oh dear, when had he last practiced his swimming? If the physical challenge had involved climbing a building, well, that would be another matter, but this?

He knew he should make for the shore. It was the sensible thing to do. If he didn’t, he risked drowning. Vimes could be anywhere by now, he could even have got to the shore somewhere out of view. Then again, Lord Vetinari had never been one for self-deception. Vimes was under the water, and he was dying.

It had not been surprising that he had refused to be reasonable and let go. Among Vimes’s diverse qualities was a tendency to be more stubborn than sensible. The Patrician had often banked on that.  
Just now, he found himself oddly reluctant to be sensible himself, almost as though Vimes were somehow contagious.  
Vetinari forced another deep breath into his protesting lungs and dove down. He had to find him.

In the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of metal. He turned toward it, scanning the ground beneath him until he located the source. Against all likelihood, he had found him. Vetinari slung an arm around Vimes and pushed himself up from the riverbed floor. Black dots appeared before his eyes as he struggled for the surface. It was so close, he had to reach it, he _had_ _to_ …

His head reached the air, and he managed to gasp in some blessed oxygen before being pulled back down by the weight. With deft hands, he quickly opened some buckles and straps and removed Vimes’s breastplate before they had sunk too far down.

Another visit to the surface, another few breaths. Now, the chainmail. With that gone, he managed to get Vimes above the water. He wasn’t breathing. Vetinari hadn’t expected him to. Was he alive? Hard to say. With his arm around the Commander’s midriff, he set out for the shore. One-handed, and with another person in tow, this seemed to take an eternity. His bad leg was a focal point of pain. More often than not, he moved underwater, only occasionally managing to catch a mouthful of air.

Finally, he could feel sand underneath him. He dragged Vimes onto dry land before collapsing next to him, panting and coughing up water.

Breathing heavily, he didn’t move for several moments. But he couldn’t stay down.  
With an astounding amount of difficulty, he forced himself back onto all fours, and turned to Vimes. Pressing the heels of both his hands onto his chest, he applied pressure in a steady, calm rhythm that starkly contrasted with the way he still hadn’t regained full control over his breathing. His lungs greedily demanded suitcase-sized chunks of air.

After exactly thirty compressions, Lord Vetinari stopped and moved over to Vimes’s head. He carefully lifted his chin, tilting his head back. He pinched the Commander’s nose closed with his other hand, and took a deep breath. Then he leant down, covering Vimes’s mouth with his, and breathed out. In the corner of his eye, Vimes’s chest was rising with the air. He leant back, breathing heavily, and did it again.

Next, he went back to the chest.

It became a rhythm. _Place hands, press thirty times_. Vimes was still not breathing _. These things take time. Move to his head. Force air into his lungs. Repeat._

The Patrician’s movements were calm and practiced. As he repeated the routine for the third time, he remembered the slight dents in the wall outside his office, and there was no slight tremor in his hands as he lifted up Vimes’s chin. During the fourth repeat, he thought of the sarcastic comments Vimes always muttered under his breath during civic meetings, and his face betrayed nothing.

As he put his hands on his chest for the sixth time, Vimes still wasn’t breathing. And the Patricians gestures were definitely not starting to look almost pleading. ~~~~

Since there was nobody here to observe him, what difference did it make if all of this was true or not? Nobody had ever been able to tell what went on inside Lord Vetinari’s head. All they ever saw was what he wanted to show them.

And now, if he mouthed quiet words under his breath, and no one was there to hear, had he ever really made a sound?

“Come on, Vimes” _one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight_ “Where is that inexorable stubbornness now?” _nine-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen-fourteen_ “Why couldn’t you simply let go?” _fifteen-sixteen-seventeen-eighteen-nineteen-twenty-twenty-one_ “Please, Sam.” _twenty-two-twenty-three-twenty-four-…_

Vetinari lifted Vimes’s chin again, gently removing a few grains of sand from his cheek. He took a deep breath and leant down, breathing into Vimes’s mouth.

There was a universe in which Sam Vimes did not move. A universe where Lord Vetinari continued his efforts until there could be no doubt that he never would move again. A universe where long fingers buried themselves in Vimes’s shirt, as if trying to hold him, keep him from leaving. Where a dark figure could be seen kneeling in the sand until night fell, head bowed, unmoving.

In another universe, as Lord Vetinari was taking another deep breath, Sam Vimes suddenly stirred. The Patrician stared at him. Vimes coughed slightly. Reacting quickly, Vetinari rolled him onto his side just before Vimes’s body was racked by violent coughing, and he started throwing up what looked like half the river. The Patrician did his best to keep any of it from getting into Vimes’s airway.

When the heaving finally stopped, Vetinari took care to place him in a stable side position before slumping down in the sand next to him. He did not remember when he had last been so tired. He felt bruises all over his body, from the cliff as well as from the impact with the water. It would be tactically sensible to rest for a while. This was convenient, because right now, moving felt quite out of the question.

With some effort, he moved his hand towards Vimes, taking his arm. His fingers found the Commander’s wrist. There was a strong pulse. It felt reassuring. Lord Vetinari continued feeling the regular heartbeat through his fingertips while he slowly fell asleep.

 

It was the cold that woke him. The sun was near the horizon, and he was shivering in his wet clothes. He was still holding Vimes’s wrist in his hand. Vimes was shivering as well, though he still seemed to be unconscious. Vetinari sat up, paying no heed to the way his whole body was hurting.

There were some trees a little way from the river where they would be less exposed.  
Standing up proved slightly more difficult than usual without the cooperation of his bad leg, but he rose to the challenge and managed to walk over to the trees to find a likely spot for a fire. On the way, he picked up a tree branch to lean on. Usually, his cane was mostly for show, but he had overexerted his leg, and now it would be a few days before it recovered.

Having decided on a place, he went back to get Vimes. Walking was easier now, but Vimes’s stubborn refusal to wake up meant he had to drag him all the way, which was no easy feat. Finally, he propped him up against a tree, so Vimes was at least sitting upright. Perhaps that would help him wake up. The Patrician set to work gathering firewood.

Soon, a little fire was burning happily between the trees. The ability to get a fire going in circumstances such as these had often struck him as useful, and so he had acquired it early on in his life. There wasn’t a lot of wood dry enough to burn properly here, but the supply should be enough to last for a few hours.

He went to check on Vimes, who was still shivering despite the fire. This was worrying. Lord Vetinari crouched down in front of him and tried once again to wake him, unsuccessfully. It was no good; he would have to remove his shirt so that his upper body, at least, could dry and warm up.

Carefully, he pulled the shirt off over Vimes’s head, disentangling his arms from the sleeves as he went. There were bruises forming on his chest, not surprisingly after being revived. Vetinari didn’t think he had broken a rib, but he hadn’t been at the height of his awareness at the time, and therefore couldn’t be certain. Gently, he put a hand onto the Commander’s chest, probing for any obvious swelling.

Vimes’s chest was covered in dense hair, which was more distracting than he liked to admit. He could not deny having noticed it before, aided by the Commander’s apparent partiality for occasionally having a naked chase through the city. But this was most certainly not the time, and so, with effort, he focused his attention on the bruises.

He found nothing alarming, though he would have to check again when Vimes woke up to be sure. At least he was breathing. Absent-mindedly, Vetinari brushed a strand of hair off Vimes’s forehead. They would need food. The obvious choice was the river, if he could make a net. He picked up his branch and got up, hanging Vimes’s shirt on a tree near the fire before sitting down on a rock.

A knife appeared in his hand, seemingly out of thin air. This would have properly impressed any onlooker, and it almost seemed a waste that there wasn’t one. The Patrician proceeded by taking off his damp undershirt, and cutting precise holes in the fabric in well-defined intervals. For good measure, and because he knew he would be using this branch for a while yet, he used his knife to skillfully whittle away at one end of the branch, until it was smooth to the touch and practical to hold. With this and his cut undershirt, he made his way to the river.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged triumphant, carrying the unlucky fish back to the camping place. He was just about to start gutting it, when he heard coughing.

 

***********

 

After a lengthy, thoughtful silence, Vetinari sighed again, and said, “I suppose we shall have to agree to disagree on the rationality of your actions. You saved my life yet again, Commander. However, I must ask you avoid relying on the Lady this heavily in the future. She is known to be fickle.”

Vimes scoffed. Did Vetinari think that he _enjoyed_ having to take million-to-one chances? But sometimes, there was no other way. Sometimes, you had no choice, no choice at all…  
And, after all, everything had worked out fine, hadn’t it?

“Incidentally, Vimes, what was it that caused this unfortunate detour in the first place?”

“Sir?”

“What was it you saw on the coach that allowed us to narrowly avoid being crushed by a large piece of rock?”

Ah. Vimes remembered. It seemed like an eternity ago. When he’d shouted to jump, Vetinari hadn’t even hesitated.

“I think it was a troll.” He strained his memory. “It looked like a boulder was moving, but it was actually a troll preparing to hurl one at us.” When a troll hurls a boulder at you, it stays hurled.  
“What’s odd is that I’ve never heard of trolls living here, this close to the road. Feels like it was supposed to look like an accident, a loose boulder hitting a coach. That’s not the usual troll method of doing things. Could’ve been hired by someone, possibly bandits.” The suspicious bastard inside him didn’t believe that for a second, though. This felt political.  
“Do you know of anyone who might want you dead, sir?” He reflected on that question for a moment. “More than usual?”

The Patrician merely looked thoughtful, but from the way a single finger was barely perceptibly tapping his branch cane, Vimes gathered that right now, he would really, _really_ hate to be that someone.

“We should probably extinguish the fire at night. If anyone’s trying to find us, I’d prefer they find us in Ankh-Morpork, and maybe when I can walk again.” He had to suppress the impulse to lure them in and fight them right here. How dare they! How _dare_ they attack the Patrician the one time he was out of the city! They knew they stood no chance against Ankh-Morpork, so they tried to destabilize her in this way. Did they think Vetinari was defenseless? _He could have_ died _!_ When Vimes was back in the city, he would _find_ them.

“I agree that that would be prudent, Commander. As fortune would have it, we do not have enough firewood to last us through the night in any case.” Vetinari got up to throw the last of it into the fire, wincing briefly as he put pressure on his bad leg. It was over in an instant, but Vimes noticed it. This was worrying, because the Patrician normally didn’t give anything away. He was either concussed, or seriously exhausted, and Vimes hadn’t noticed any head injury.

“You should lie down for the night, sir,” he suggested. “Even you have to sleep sometimes.”

“I can see you swaying where you sit, Vimes. You most definitely should take a rest, considering that you were dead a few hours ago, or as close as you can get while still coming back.” Vimes glared at him and was about to protest, but thought better of it when, for a second, the Patrician looked almost… pained at the thought. No, that had to have been his imagination, because this was Lord Vetinari.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Let’s just both lie down, alright?” He got up with some difficulty, feeling ready to lie down and sleep _anywhere_. At a likely looking spot near the fire, he tested the ground. It was… earth. Not exactly luxurious, but he was used to sleeping wherever he happened to end up. He looked over to Vetinari, who was standing close to the fire. Vimes frowned. He himself wasn’t exactly warm, but he was a natural oven and the cold had never bothered him much.

“When that fire goes out, it’s going to get chilly,” he said carefully

“Indeed.” Lord Vetinari smiled faintly, perfectly at ease. “I believe the custom is to, as they say, ‘share body warmth’?”

It infuriated Vimes. He had been searching for ways to cautiously approach the subject, only for the Patrician to just say it directly, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world! Vetinari was not supposed to be the one to suggest it, gods damn it!

“Er… As a matter of fact, yes, sir.” The fact that the Patrician had just outright stated it like that had unbalanced him, and though Vetinari’s face betrayed nothing, Vimes would have sworn that he was deeply amused.

“We do that in the Watch, when we get trapped somewhere cold. All part of the inner-city-survival-guidelines.”

“Capital! I presume that you are an expert, then!” Vetinari said brightly.

“Been in the situation a couple of times,” Vimes conceded. Awkwardly, he tapped his foot on the ground a bit, then pointed to where he was standing. “How about here?”

“I bow to your expertise, Commander.”

“Expertise? I’m a city man! This ‘earth’ stuff has nothing to do with the ground I usually walk on!”  
He muttered under his breath about ruthless tyrants, luring him out into the countryside, and where had that got them?

Vetinari flashed a brief grin at that.

Vimes sat down on the patch of earth he had chosen, beckoning Vetinari to do the same. The Patrician walked over to him, and gracefully lay down on his back next to Vimes, folding his hands over his chest. He shivered when the cold ground touched his bare skin. This was unacceptable, Vimes decided, the man would catch his death at night. He lay down too, understanding the shivering. He had to guard the Patrician from the cold, and that’s what he would do, no matter how intimidating the man was.

He carefully inched closer with the intention of wedging an arm between the Patrician and the ground. But when he touched Vetinari’s side, he let out a hiss and Vimes snatched his hand back in alarm.

“My apologies,” Lord Vetinari said, after a moment. “This bruise is annoyingly painful.” When Vimes took a closer look, he saw the large dark patch. He hummed in sympathy.

“That looks bad, sir. Are you sure no ribs are broken?”

“It is nothing, Commander. Just a rather inconvenient rock when we jumped from the coach.”

“Right.”

Vimes reached out again, carefully, until the tips of his fingers just barely touched the bruise. Strangely fascinated, he lightly traced the purple skin. It was soft. He felt that it somehow shouldn’t be.

Vetinari shivered almost imperceptibly. He turned his head to look at Vimes, raising an eyebrow.  
That brought Vimes back to his senses, and he quickly pulled his hand away. Why had he just been doing that? Must be the exhaustion. This was the Patrician! And he was cold, even shivering. That just couldn’t stand.

He cleared his throat. “Could you lift your back for a moment, sir?”  
Lord Vetinari obliged, a picture of perfect body control. Vimes put his arm underneath him, inching still closer, until the Patrician was practically lying on his shoulder.  
He was overly aware of how much skin contact he now had with _Lord Vetinari_ , but, after all, this was the point, wasn’t it? To warm him in this way? Still, he couldn’t help wondering if anyone alive had been this physically close to the Patrician and lived to tell the tale.

“Look, Commander,” Lord Vetinari said, pointing at the sky. “You can see the Small Boring Group of Faint Stars from here. In the city, the smoke and light impede such a clear view.”  
Vimes could feel the vibrations of his voice through his body.

“I suppose so.” To him, the stars were largely useless dots in the sky, while light and smoke meant civilization, so in his book, this was no great drawback.

They lay there in companionable silence, the Patrician looking at the stars, and Vimes trying to make sense of the crazy day he’d just had, and how the hell he’d ended up here.

As the fire slowly burned down, Vimes noticed goosebumps on Lord Vetinari’s skin whenever there was a gust of wind. Wordlessly, he threw his free arm across the Patrician’s chest, practically hugging him. Vetinari didn’t say anything. “Shut up,” Vimes said.

The Patrician covered his mouth with his hand amusedly.

Vimes could feel his individual ribs. He was so thin! Of course, Vimes had always known that, just as he knew that appearances could be deceiving, and in this case, they were. The man was deadly.

After a while, the Patrician’s breathing became calm and deep. Vimes assumed he had fallen asleep, although with Vetinari, you never knew. Vimes fought to stay awake, to keep guard, but had difficulty keeping his eyes open. The breathing next to him was regular and comforting, and eventually, he fell asleep out of pure exhaustion.

He found himself surrounded by cold and darkness. He tried to move, but there was a great weight pressing onto him, a great weight inside his chest and he couldn’t move, and he couldn’t breathe, and he needed to get away from here, he needed to move, move...  
Panicked, he kicked at the darkness, but his feet felt like they weren’t a part of him, it was so cold, and he could feel himself breathing desperately, but he _knew_ that he was unable to breathe.

“Vimes.” A voice. It was far away, but if he could reach it, if he could swim towards it... He thrashed at the darkness, willing it to part like water, but it was so heavy, and he was drowning.

“Vimes!” He couldn’t breathe, the water, the cold... He desperately pushed it away, fought it...  
Something wrapped itself around him, something softer than the cold darkness. It was stopping him from moving, and from fighting, holding down his arms. He felt less exposed, safer. Slowly, he calmed down. The weight lessened as he stopped trying to fight it, and he could breathe again.

Vimes opened his eyes. The fire had burned down, and all he could see were shadows. There was a voice very close behind him.  
“Are you back with us, Commander?”

“I was...” His voice was hoarse and he gasped for air. “I was drowning...”

He could feel the movement behind him as the Patrician huffed. “Indeed. And you fought back rather valiantly, might I add.”

Vimes was slowly shaking off the dazedness of sleep. Had he been thrashing around while dreaming? Vetinari was... holding him. He was practically spooning Vimes, holding him so that he could not move his arms. Vimes wondered if he had hit him in his sleep, but he seriously doubted it. He wouldn’t even be able to do that awake and trying.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “Just a nightmare.” Vimes was surprised that he wasn’t more unnerved about the fact that he was currently held motionless by the Patrician. Vetinari’s breaths behind him were calm and, slowly, Vimes’s breathing calmed down as well. His heart was still pounding, though, the adrenaline still there from the fear and the drowning. It would be difficult to fall asleep again anytime soon.

He listened to the crickets and the other sounds of the country. They were all wrong. Where was the rattling of the carts over cobbles, the nightly arguments and the bells, proclaiming that all was well? Instead, there was the river, sounding so much less... gloopy than the Ankh, surreptitious rustlings, and mysterious screeches. And bloody crickets.

Suddenly, all this was drowned out by a quiet noise very close to his ear. A whisper.  
“Go to sleep, Vimes.” Vimes could feel the breath brush against his ear. His heartbeat picked up again, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. He swallowed. Behind him, he could vaguely sense Vetinari tilting his head to one side. A hand moved from where it had been holding his arms, to his neck. There was the gentle pressure of cool fingers on his throat, moving expertly to come to rest on his pulse. His heart was pounding now. This was, he insisted to himself, a reasonable reaction for anyone who suddenly found themselves with Lord Vetinari’s hand on their carotid.

“Hmm, no wonder you lie awake... Your heart is racing.” Vetinari’s voice was barely above a breath, his lips almost touching Vimes’s ear. It sent goosebumps down Vimes’s spine, and he prayed that Vetinari wasn’t picking up on the way his heart sped up whenever he spoke.

“That must have been quite the nightmare...” the Patrician murmured softly. Vimes couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or amused. He had to concentrate to keep his breathing steady.  
“Do try to relax, Vimes,” the voice at his ear whispered. “I am told counting sheep can be assistive.”

Vimes wanted to accuse him, _Well, you’re not helping!_ , but he kept silent. Where would he even begin?

To his relief, and surely it was relief, Vetinari removed his hand from his throat. As Vimes lay in the darkness, listening to the unholy cacophony of nighttime creatures without really hearing them, sleep felt more impossible than ever before. Although it had to be said, now, the nightmare was no longer in the front of his mind.

 

Vimes had to have fallen asleep eventually, because in the morning, he was waking up, blinking in the early sunlight.

There was a pressure on his ribs which turned out to be the Patrician, apparently comfortably sleeping with his head on Vimes’s chest. Vimes had his arms wrapped around him, in what might have been described as a hug. Huh. He couldn’t remember how that had happened. How had they got here from Vetinari holding him? Still, the man seemed comfortable enough, and gods knew he didn’t get enough rest.

Vetinari was breathing slowly and regularly, and Vimes had enough experience with breathing patterns to recognize that of a person who was deeply asleep. He tried not to move, to keep his own breathing as it had been, in order not to wake him. He felt surprisingly relaxed, with the irrational urge to run his fingers through Vetinari’s hair.

Without so much as a change in his breathing, or any tiny movement to suggest he had woken up, the Patrician suddenly spoke, startling Vimes.

“Good morning, Commander. I trust you slept well?” His voice sounded calm and present, not the voice of a person who had just woken up. Was he this quick to shake off sleep, or had he been pretending? He was a damn good actor if he had. And how in the hell had he known Vimes was awake?

“Yeah fine,” he muttered. “And you?” He had meant to add a ‘, sir?’, but, in the current situation, it felt utterly out of place.

“Hmm, delightful. And pleasantly warm, thank you.”

Awkwardly, Vimes let go of him, frowning to hide his embarrassment at how nice the hug had felt and at how reluctant he was to stop it. Vetinari sat up, leaving Vimes to miss the warmth on his chest.  
“We should try to get back to the city,” Vimes said gruffly, hoping the we-are-lost-in the-wilderness-situation would distract from the we-were-cuddling-at-night-situation.

“Naturally. However, I don’t suppose breakfast is quite out of the question?”

Vimes grumbled an ‘oh, alright’, as though he was only reluctantly agreeing. This was just the moment his stomach chose to make hungry growling noises. Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow at that.

“I am glad you find yourself amenable to spending a few more minutes to eat before setting out. There should be some leftovers from yesterday.”

Reaching for the branch-cane beside him, Vimes sat up and slowly got to his feet. He was still battered, but walking felt slightly easier than yesterday. He put that down as a good sign.

The uneaten bits of fish were lying where they’d left them, and Vetinari sat down next to Vimes on the rocks. Vimes actually managed to get down a few bites today, even though now, it not only tasted like cardboard, but like cold cardboard. While he was wrestling with his food, the suddenly Patrician got up and limped towards the trees.

Had he seen something? Did he mean for Vimes to follow? Was he already setting out for Ankh-Morpork? Confused, Vimes also got to his feet and called after him. “Where are you going?”

Vetinari turned around. “Contrary to popular belief, Vimes, I _am_ still human, and as such, must occasionally answer a call of nature. So please, do sit back down. Because if I wanted you to watch, I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of walking away.”

“Right.” Ears turning red, Vimes sat. Of course, intellectually, he knew that the Patrician must probably, now and then, take a piss like the rest of them. It was just hard to internalize that fact.

He considered his breakfast, wondering if choking on a fishbone was a viable strategy right now. But no, of course that bastard had been far too conscientious in preparing that fish to leave him that back door. Bloody Vetinari.

After Vimes had finished eating, he drank some water from the river (a river you could _drink_ from! It was preposterous), and went into the woods himself. With those necessities taken care of, it was time to discuss how they would get home.

“I was observing the stars yesterday,” Vetinari said. Vimes remembered. In the light of day, he wondered if the man had even slept at all, or had just wanted a warm place to lie while looking at the sky.

“Judging from the Celestial Parsnip and Vut the Evenstar, together with where the sun rose this morning, we are Widdershins of Ankh-Morpork. For now, I suggest we walk downriver, which leads us in the right general direction, until we get out of this canyon.” He took Vimes’s now dry shirt off the tree it had been hanging in, and handed it to him.  
“From there, we have a good chance of finding some village, or perhaps we will even catch a direct glimpse of the smoke emanating from our proud city.”

“Mhm,” Vimes nodded along. He was used to be able to find his way just by the feel beneath his feet, and felt lost without that. He hesitated to put on his shirt – it was weird enough being in the presence of a shirtless Patrician, it would feel even weirder to do it while being fully clothed himself.

Reaching a decision, he offered his shirt to Vetinari. “Here. You can wear this, sir.”

This seemed to surprise the Patrician, though you had to know him very well to realize it. He tilted his head to the side. “Oh? How very... gallant.”

Vimes shrugged. “Well, I am wearing yours.” He held up his bandaged hand. “And besides, the whole city has seen _me_ naked, they won’t even blink at topless. Whereas you project a certain dignity, I’ve always thought.” The understatement had been meant to annoy Vetinari. As it was, he grinned at Vimes, which was almost as good.

“In that case, I thank you for your offer, Commander.” He took the shirt from Vimes and put it on. It was too short and too wide for him, but Vimes still found the sight strangely pleasing.

They started walking.

 

***********

 

Cut-Me-Own-Throat-Dibbler was selling sausages and meat pies at the Onion Gate. It was good business here, once you had mastered the art of telling the difference between people returning to Ankh-Morpork and the people coming here for the first time.

He spotted two likely looking customers now. They both looked battered, with unshaven beards and full of dirt. One of them was bare-chested, the other was leaning on his shoulder as they walked. They didn’t seem like people who had high standards for their food.

Not, he added to himself, that his sausages would not hold up to even the highest of standards. It just seemed to be easier to sell to people who, well, didn’t demand that they did.

He approached the two bedraggled travelers, advertising his goods. “Sausage inna bun? Only seven pence, and that’s cutting me own throat!”

They turned to look at him. Both had and intense way of staring, and combined, their eyes felt like they could have burned holes through steel. It would have sent most less-enterprising merchants running, but you met all sorts at the gates. You couldn’t let scary stares, mannerisms, appearances or weapons deter you from making a sale. Still, his instincts told him that even though they seemed unarmed, it might be wise to stay on these travelers’ good side.

He fell back on his tried and true approach, and proclaimed, as cheerfully as possible, “Hot sausages! Meat pies! Get ‘em while they’re hot!”

The shorter, topless, man looked at the sausages hungrily. He sniffed.  
“Mmhh... The smell of civilization.”

“This might not be a good idea,” the taller man said, but all he got in answer was a defiant look.

“I’ll take a sausage inna bun,” the shorter man said.

His accent was Morporkian, which made it surprising that he attacked the sausage with such enthusiasm. He ate the whole thing in three bites, while the man in the ill-fitting shirt watched, looking slightly horrified. Dibbler felt that both these men looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Perhaps member of the Beggar’s guild? Hermits who had used to live here, here to visit on their day off?

“That’ll be seven pence,” he said.

The topless man patted his pockets, mumbling under his breath. “Money, money... Seven pence, now where...”

He looked up. “Pretty sure I had a dollar in my shirt pocket.” He flashed the other man an apologetic look, and Dibbler thought they were about to make a run for it, as sometimes happened. He was ready to call for the Watch, but the taller man merely nodded and started searching through his shirt pockets. He pulled out a coin and handed it to him.

Dibbler was slightly surprised, but, ultimately, it was their business how they managed their meagre stock of clothes. And coin was coin.

“Keep the change,” the topless man said, “And you’ve never seen us, got it?”

The brisk demand made Dibbler feel sure that he somehow knew this man, but then again, a whole dollar said that he hadn’t. He nodded. “Right you are! Thank you, sir!”

“We should go to –“ the short man hesitated, shooting a glance at Dibbler, who made a show of not listening and looking somewhere else. “... to my place, before going to the palace, sir. For a shave, a bath, and some clothes.”

While Dibbler scanned the crowd for new customers, he wondered what these two madmen wanted at the palace. Lord Vetinari would have had them thrown out before they could open their mouths, if he were here, but it seemed he was still at this diplomatic gathering in the Sto Plains.

As the two strange men walked and/or limped into the city, and the last thing he heard from them was, “Oh, gods.”

“Is something wrong?”

“You were right, sir... The sausage was a mistake...”

C.M.O.T. Dibbler used the moment to surreptitiously melt into the crowd.


End file.
